


Accidents Happen

by WinterTongue



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ALL THE ACCEPTANCE, Acceptance, Book Quotes, Churches & Cathedrals, Gen, Greek Mythology - Freeform, Hell, LGBTQ+ characters, Librarians, Magic, Manipulation, Multi, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Religion, Roman Catholicism, Roman mythology, Runes, So Much Classic Literature, Witchcraft, egyptian mythology - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 03:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21421354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterTongue/pseuds/WinterTongue
Summary: Chesa Hernandez is tired of trying and failing to get her sister, Reyna, a boyfriend. With Reyna’s cancer back and her lifespan considerably shortened, she’s pulling one last trick. She’s desperate, and the man at the counter may be a scammer, but who knows? Maybe doing one of these witchcraft things will help. Instead, she learns accidental summoning leads to romance. Reyna and the God of Mischief are unamused.
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue

~*~Pulmonary Adenocarcinoma~*~

“Ms. Hernandez, please sit down."

Reyna knows before Dr. Johnson even says a word. She sits down, her heart seeming heavier than lead, and she stares at her hands. She knows. From Dr. Johnson’s deep sigh, he knows she knows, too. Reyna isn’t sure how he can have this job, telling people they’re dying on a daily basis.

“Ms. Hernandez, the chemotherapy treatment isn’t working this time. It’s spread to the right lung and into the fluid lining your lungs, and to your thoracic lymph nodes. With how fast it’s growing, I would estimate that you have between six months and a year left.”

She nods, unable to speak. Dr. Johnson starts to list options and advice, but every word goes through one ear and out the other. She leaves the office only after she says goodbye to the nurses, phlebotomists, and receptionists. She won’t be seeing them again; she can’t leave without letting them know how much they’re appreciated.

The drive home is tense. On the passenger seat, Reyna’s phone vibrates. Vibrates. The call goes to voice mail. Reyna feels emotion leaking back into her and makes a quick decision. She pulls over to the side of the road and sobs against the steering wheel.

The next call, she answers. It’s her sister, worriedly asking how her appointment went. Reyna steels herself. She had her time to be upset. Now, she needs to be strong for her family.

“It didn’t go well, Chesa,” she says calmly. Her fingers drum against the wheel. “Stage four. I’ve got six months to a year left. I got caught in traffic, but I’m about thirty minutes from home.”

Chesa cries. Reyna clenches her jaw and squeezes her eyes shut. In the background, Chesa’s fiancé, Wei, asks what’s wrong. When Chesa chokes it out, he starts to cry, too.

Reyna forces herself to breathe. It’s hard these days. In a few months, it will be impossible.

“I love you both. I’ll be home soon.”

She ends the call. The light turns green; someone honks behind her. Reyna puts her foot on the gas.

Getting home takes a few hours off her life. Between all of the hugging, weeping, and overall grief, she wonders how she’ll make it a week. They finally settle down enough to ask questions, and Reyna answers as best as she can. She is released, though, when she mentions that she needs a shower.

The cold water is soothing. The chemicals in her system have nothing to do with her elevated body temp—that’s all the stress fighting to be free. She doesn’t give in. Not when her family is in the other room, no doubt wondering about what to do.

Reyna is asking the same question.

After showering, she calls her parents. They’re down in Chile, but they want to come back into the U.S. when Reyna explains the situation. Hearing her parents upset feels like someone is hammering nails into her spinal column. She wishes, just for a moment, that she was deaf like Wei. That way, she wouldn’t have to hear the despair in their voices.

“Todo estará bien, mamá. No, papá, no tengo miedo.” Reyna props her chin on her fist. “No estoy mintiendo y no tengo miedo. ¿Quién dijo que mi historia terminaría con mi muerte? Mi memoria continúa, aunque no estaré allí para ver el final de mi historia.” Reyna smiles, even though her parents can’t see her. “Los amo an ambo.”

Chesa walks in as Reyna finishes the call. There’s heaviness in Chesa’s shoulders and in her tone.

“You told them?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d they take it?”

“Well, parents don’t like to outlive their children.”

“Wei and I want to reschedule the wedding.”

Reyna smiles, eyebrows raised. “Chesa, you got engaged two weeks ago.”

“Three, but you’re my maid of honor, and I need you there.”

“Chesa,” she says gently, taking her sister’s hand in her own. “¿Por qué tengo la sensación de que tienes más miedo de mi muerte que yo?”

“A world without you, Reyna, hardly counts as a world.”

“¿Qué hay de tu prometido?”

“Lo amo y él es el mejor hombre que podría pedir, pero no es mi hermana pequeña.”

Reyna kisses her big sister’s forehead. She does this not only to show how much she loves her, but to hide the tears gathering in her eyes. “Todavía no estoy muerta, Chesa.”

They fall asleep on Reyna’s bed. Wei sneaks in and lays across the foot of the bed. When they wake up, it’s because Reyna’s alarm has gone off.

She has to go to work. The public library awaits her, and for Wei, he has a law firm to go to. Chesa, however, is due to start her shift at the local pizza shop.

Life goes on, even when it will end soon for one.

Across the Nine Realms, the youngest Asgardian prince sits in the gardens, magic threaded through his fingers.

-

The store doesn’t look like anything special. Like every shop set up in Charlottesville, Virginia, it’s a compact little place. College students are the dominant consumers, and even they seem to have neglected ‘Ancestral Remedies’.

Chesa peers through the windows. It’s not dirty or particularly messy inside. If anything, it looks modern. The floor plan is open. The shelves on the walls host stones and crystals and mason jars of all sizes. The lighting is bright, which Chesa finds strange for an herbal remedy shop like this. Placebos and witchcraft are the main products here, and the atmosphere doesn’t really fit.

She walks in, anyways.

The man at the counter welcomes her. There’s no mystic music playing. It’s actually the newest pop songs. Chesa barely gives the cashier a look over before getting down to business.

“I need something that will, uh, influence love life. Got anything like that?”

“Actually, yes, it just made it to the shelf yesterday. The jars are in alphabetical order, so all you have to do is skip straight to ‘S’ and you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

Chesa does like she’s been instructed. When she makes it to the ‘S’ section, one of the bigger jars stands out. She picks it up carefully and looks at the tag.

The Soulmate Summons—Guaranteed to find your perfect match in a day’s time!  
Directions: Take some of your hair and place it in the jar. Light a match, let it burn, and enjoy the results soon after!  
$39.99 U.S.A.

Forty bucks for a jar of… well, Chesa doesn’t know what’s in the jar. That’s her next question. She doesn’t like the answer.

“Snake skin, a branch from an elder tree and an ash tree, a small number of runes, and three raven feathers.”

“Uh, runes? Like—"

The cashier nods. “Yeah, like the ones you’d find from Viking days. Uruz, Naudhiz, Ehwaz, Berkanan, Ingwaz.”

Chesa nods, like she knows what that means. “Okay, I’ll have this, please.”

She walks out of the store with very little hope that she’ll succeed in her quest.

When she gets home, Reyna is still gone. She’s probably at the library; she closes on weekdays, even though she keeps asking her coworker, Joshua, to do it for her.

Her boyfriend, Chen Wei, is waiting for her in the living room. He only sighs upon seeing the jar, not that Chesa can blame him. Chesa herself is worried that her parents will pop by for a random visit, as they’re known to do, and that they’ll see the witchcraft. Seeing as her parents have been born and raised in Catholicism, the outcome wouldn’t be very good.

“Wei, can you grab Reyna’s hairbrush from the bathroom, please?”

“You know this won’t work, right?” His hands move slowly, enunciating the point that Chesa is, in fact, wasting time and money.

Chesa turns up the charm. “Please, Wei?”

He sighs again, deeper and heavier, but fetches the hairbrush. Chesa smiles broadly when he hands it to her.

“Thank you, mi amor!” she sing-songs. Wei only kisses her cheek and sits back down in the living room. Chesa doesn’t doubt that he’s engrossed himself in a different book; the man loves his western novels as much as she loves Doritos.

Okay, she thinks as she tears her sister’s hair from her brush. Hair. This is her hair. Now I burn it.

The matches are always kept in the pantry, next to the marshmallows, chocolate, and graham crackers. Chesa drops the match in. The smell is absolutely horrible, and she ends up covering her nose with her shirt as she goes to cut the fan on and open a window or two.

Then there’s a crash.

Chesa turns around and screams. Her dining table is broken. There’s a person—a tall, weirdly dressed person—laying dead in the middle of it.


	2. Chapter One

~*~Spellbound God~*~  
It has been quite a while since Prince Loki had gone for a stroll. His steed, a fine mare of good breeding, canters steadily through a glen. The palace and city are far behind him, having given way to wilderness a fair while back, and Loki is reminded once more that Asgard’s beauty lies primarily in its mountains and forests.

The finery and gold of the palace is splendid, of course, but it lacks the natural charm of the vale and river. The air is cleaner here, as well.

The mare’s stride slows when Loki tugs on the reins. She halts completely near a narrow path through the trees. Loki knows better than to press the mare to walk onward; horses are skittish, and can prove dangerous to the most skilled of riders when spooked.

He instead dismounts, takes her reins, and begins down the path. The chatter of birds proves an immediate relaxation. Loki comes to a river and releases his steed. Horses have always been his favorite animal, and watching the mare drink, he admires the strength in her muscles and the deep, soulful eyes that every horse seems to boast. The mare is indeed beautiful, with her sleek black pelt and calm temperament.

Loki kneels on the bank, intent on quenching his own thirst, and instead grasps for something to hold on to as the world falls away. He shouts, clawing for some handhold or another, and instead crashes back-first into something very, very hard.

Someone screams. Loki groans, back and head aching, and forces himself to sit up. In doing so, he comes face-to-face with an oddly dressed woman. Slowly, he surveys his surroundings.

He is in a house. A strange, foreign house filled with bookshelves and stray novels. He looks back to the woman. This time, his eyes are narrowed.

Loki stands and walks towards her; he understands how intimidating he can be, and is thoroughly unimpressed when the woman cowers against the wall.

“Where am I?” he says gently, his silver tongue easing away most of her panic. Shakily, she is able to respond.

“What do you—what?”

“This is not Alfheim, Asgard, Vanaheim, Nidavellir, or Nornheim. It is certainly not Muspelheim or Jotunheim, and Niflheim is more desolate than either of the former. Tell me…” Loki tilts her chin up and eases his expression into something that borders on kind. “Is this Midgard? Earth?”

“What else would it be?” she whispers.

He brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. His tone remains soft, so as to not startle her. “I have heard that mortals are lesser in both stature and intelligence, though lying to the god of lies is truly a low for your kind. Why have you summoned me, hm? Why do you act as though you unintendedly brought me here, when the evidence lays behind me?”

She whimpers pathetically. Loki clenches his jaw, the realization that this was pure accident washing over him.

Before he can say a word, there’s a sharp pain in the back of his head, and the floor meets his cheek.

-

“—gotten into you? We can’t kill him!”

Loki keeps quiet, discreetly testing to see how tightly bound he is. Very, so he finds, but nothing he can’t burst out of easily. He listens to their conversation to gain more knowledge of his situation. A new voice, male and oddly high pitched, answers the mortal woman.

“Why not?”

“Because, Wei, that’s murder!”

“What are we supposed to do? Turn him over to the cops and say, ‘This is a man who looks like he’s ready for Comicon but really thinks he’s a god. He fell out of nowhere and broke our dining table and we think he might be from England. Have a great day, officers!’”

“That’s exactly what we say.”

“I don’t want to end up in the loony bin, Chesa, and that’s where we’ll end up if we don’t kill him!”

“Oh, so you’ll kill a man but not a spider?”

“Spiders are from hell and can poison you with a painless bite. I’m a lawyer, I know how to evade the law, we kill him clean and—”

“What the actual hell, Wei?”

Loki decides he’s heard enough. Groaning, he slowly opens his eyes. He fixes a dark, cold gaze on the pair of mortals. They truly make a strange couple—the man is short and buff, the woman tall and overweight. Neither seem threatening.

“I have no intention of hurting you,” he says gently, “though my patience is wearing increasingly thin. Untie me, answer my questions, and I shall leave you unharmed.”

“How about you answer ours,” the man says, sounding more like a fledgling songbird trying to sing than a grown male. He has a bat in his hand. So, the mortal bludgeoned him into a brief unconsciousness. How barbaric.

Loki summons a dagger, a dainty blade that his mother gave him as a child. He used it stab his brother once, as a joke. The memory makes his smile much more genuine. “Do you believe I am the one in danger? Are you really that daft?”

“Who are you?” the woman asks.

“I am Prince Loki Odinson of Asgard, the god of mischief and lies.”

The man pulls his wife to the side. At least, Loki supposes that’s their relation. The ring on her finger certainly attests to that.

“Chesa, he’s nuts. We should kill him.”

“He obviously is sick, he needs help—”

“Yeah, a bullet in his mouth or a knife in his jugular!”

“Chen Wei, I swear if you don’t stop with this—”

Loki brushes the ropes off and stands up, hands laced behind his back. Smirking, he drawls, “As amusing as your quarreling is, I am impatient to begin.”

They stare, open mouthed, for a few seconds. Then the man runs forward, bat aloft. Loki easily steps aside, grabs the bat, and uses both it and the man’s momentum to shove him against the chair. He falls with an undignified shriek. His wife rushes over and kneels by him, never once letting Loki out of her field of vision.

“Mortals are fragile, yes, but falling won’t injure him severely,” he says dismissively. “Now, onto business.”

Loki inspects the table he originally landed on. In the remains he finds broken wood and shattered glass, ash, and a label.

The Soulmate Summons—Guaranteed to find your perfect match in a day’s time!  
Directions: Take some of your hair and place it in the jar. Light a match, let it burn, and enjoy the results soon after!  
$39.99 U.S.A.

Immediately, there’s panic. Burning your hair is, in different ways, a primal form of magic. However, Loki steels himself enough to continue sifting through the rubble. He quickly finds what he’s looking for. Several smooth, small stones. Loki runs his fingertips over the engravements upon them, listing the names of the runes under his breath.

“Ingwaz, Ehwaz, Berkanan, Naudhiz, Uruz.” Loki looks over at the couple, fury setting his stare ablaze. “Have you any idea what you’ve done?”

He pockets the stones and stands, bringing himself to his full height. He stalks to the mortals. They cower into each other as he approaches.

“Uruz is the rune for strength of will. Naudhiz, unfulfilled need. Berkanan for growth and fertilization. Ehwaz is companionship, loyalty. Ingwaz symbolizes the beginning of something great. These runes hold unstable, primal magic. Have you any idea how dangerous your ‘Soulmate Summons’ is?” he all but snarls. He glares down at the two, a muscle jumping in his jaw.

Loki takes in a deep breath. He pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What else was in the jar?”

“I don’t know,” the woman says, voice small.

“Do better.”

“The guy who sold it to me, he—the guy said something about trees and snakeskin.”

Snakeskin. Rebirth. Also, one of Loki’s symbols. The trees, though—

“The trees used, were they ash and elder?” he demands.

She nods, obviously terrified.

She has every reason to be.

Loki is downright pissed.

“Do you want to know what you’ve done?” he says in a soft, horribly calm tone. “Whoever sold this to you didn’t give you a way to find your other half—which, I hate to tell you, doesn’t exist—they gave you a dual spell. Not only does it summon me, a god, but it binds me to the unfortunate soul whose hair you’ve burned.”

Immediately, the realization washes over them. And the woman whispers one word.

“Reyna.”

The man jumps to his feet. “Don’t you dare hurt Reyna.”

Loki raises his eyebrows. The mortal is as threatening as a mouse.

“I have no intention of harming or killing the other recipient of the spell. This sort of magic is… well, unpredictable. Her death could mean my own. Besides—” Loki gestures to the table’s remains. “—it’s clear that this ‘Reyna’ woman has no idea that you’ve tied her fate with mine. Shall we sit and talk about the course of action, or shall we wait until one of you passes into the realm of the dead?”

Loki sits on their couch. It’s plush and rather comfortable. He reclines leisurely, eyeing his surroundings. The house is small, possibly the size of his chambers on Asgard, though a thought strikes him. Neither mortal in his company seem like to reading sort.

“Is Reyna fond of books?”

The woman nods. Her grip on her husband’s hand tightens. “Yeah.”

“And what are your names?”

“Well, uh, I’m Chesa—”

“Oh, yeah, let’s give him our social security number while you’re at it!” the man grumbles.

“—and this is Wei,” she finishes, as if never interrupted.

Loki nods thoughtfully. “Chesa and Wei, I shall not harm you or Reyna. I do require a place to stay, however, and new attire. I have not been on Midgard since…” Loki chuckles. 

“Well, it’s been quite a long time. Tell me of Reyna.”

“Uh, that’s the thing.” Chesa refuses to look up from where Wei is rubbing circles onto the back of her hand. “Reyna has a sickness called cancer and she’s…”

She trails off. Wei picks up where she left off.

“Reyna’s dying. She was told she was dying about two months ago, and since she’s never really dated anyone, Chesa doesn’t want her to die alone.”

Wonderful, Loki thinks harshly, I’ve been bound to a mortal whose life expires soon.

“She’s wonderful, though,” Chesa is quick to interject. “She’s my little sister, Mama and Papa’s golden child. Reyna is their pride and joy. She’s super polite, really charming, and confident to the point where people flock to her. Don’t piss her off, because she won’t hesitate to lay into you. If you’re mean she’ll return the favor. Violence isn’t her thing, but I’ve seen her make a grown man cry with a few words. She’s Catholic, like our parents, and while she’s not nearly as extreme as them, she is religious. Um… Wei? Anything else to add?”

“Hurt her and I hurt you.”

Loki rolls his eyes. “I already stated that I have no intention of doing harm to any of you.”

“Sorry if I don’t believe you.”

“Wei…”

“Fine.” He sighs heavily. “To try and stop her from dying, she went through chemo, which is when they pump you full of radiation and chemicals to kill the cancer cells. It didn’t work, obviously. The treatment itself has side effects—weight loss, loss of appetite, nausea, hair loss, nosebleeds, blood in the ears and mouth. She’s grown some of her hair back and is gaining some weight since she stopped the treatment, but she’s not at her best yet. Don’t mention either. She’s a survivor, got it?”

“Understood,” Loki says calmly. “Who sold you the dual spell?”

Chesa shrugs. “Some guy at a placebo shop. I can take you there, but Reyna gets home in an hour and I need to make dinner. Er, I don’t know what you usually eat, but tonight’s taco night, so…”

“Tacos are good,” Wei informs as his wife walks off.

“Does Reyna cook?”

He gives Loki the stink eye. “She’s not a maid. I still don’t think you’re a god, but I do think that you were brought here by witchcraft, and I won’t hesitate to whip your magical ass. But no, Reyna is forbidden to cook in this household after March 10th.”

Loki doesn’t ask why March 10th holds such a sinister air.

Instead, he browses the collection of books. Asgard’s library is much more impressive, but for a household such as this, he finds himself holding a bit of respect for Reyna’s books. There’s everything from poetry to horror in her shelves. He picks out a larger, worn hardback written by a William Shakespeare. A playwright, it would seem.

Chesa gives him some clothes to change in to. They're far too small. He'll need to buy some that fit later on, but they'll suffice for now.

He passes an hour by lounging on the couch, the book propped on his knee. Chesa announces that dinner is done, but says they have to wait for Reyna to eat. When the couple asks Loki what his plan is, he just tells them to follow his lead.

If all goes according to plan, Reyna will be dead in a week, and Loki will be on Asgard. Speaking of, he needs to send a raven. No doubt, his horse has been found and Loki himself will have been declared missing. Or, perhaps not. Loki is known for disappearing and returning without warning. He still can’t forgive Thor for saying that Loki gave birth to Sleipnir when it was actually his magic that created his additional legs, while the horse was in his mare’s womb.

He hears the clink of metal and watches as the doorknob turns.

When it opens, Loki’s mind goes blank.

Reyna is gorgeous.

No woman on Asgard or Vanaheim or any world he’s visited can come close to her beauty. Even Lady Freyja’s seems dull in comparison. Reyna is tall; her dress is modest, yet it shows off her body in very appealing ways. Her hair is, as Wei mentioned, short. The dark, straight strands look like they’re as soft as a crow’s plumage, and they stick in all sorts of ways like down feathers. Her lips arch into a smile; her left cheek dimples.

Loki forgets how to breathe.

“You didn’t say there would be company.” She addresses Wei and Chesa, who sit together on the loveseat. Loki thinks of the harp players from Alfheim who were at his and Thor’s titling. Each word is plucked delicately, each syllable spoken as if it was a precious gem. “Hi, I’m Reyna.”

He snaps out of it. Swiftly, he moves to stand in front of her and offers a charming smile. She can look him in the eye with ease, and Loki nearly struck mute again by the sheer intensity of her irises. Like coal, they’re dark and cold, and yet they hold the potential of the most consuming of flames. As strong and deep as the earth's deepest of reaches, as inviting as a recently stoked hearth. She is striking.

Loki clears his throat.

“I’m Lucas,” he lies. He kisses the back of her hand when she offers it to him, only to realize a moment later that in Midgard, the custom is to shake. “Apologies, I’m used to more lavish environments in which that sort of welcome is the usual.”

She shrugs, brushing the awkwardness of the exchange off with ease. “You work with the fancier crowd, then?”

“My upbringing tends to place me in those situations,” he answers simply. “As a linguist, I rarely am put into that scene.”

“Linguist? Cool, I’m a librarian. Also, I’m pretty hungry, so conversation can be held over dinner. The library has a snack machine but working an eight-to-five shift tends to make you hungry, especially when it’s finals... what happened to the table?"

Chesa laughs nervously. "Wei and Lucas were roughhousing. We'll eat in the living room."

Reyna doesn't buy it for a moment, but she doesn't comment.

Loki is quick to take the seat next to her. The meal isn't that bad, though Loki does wait to see how Wei makes his 'taco' before doing so, himself. The mortal is quite insufferable, but he seems straightforward enough to earn some sort of reliability. Chesa, on the other hand, he's still dismissive of.

Her cooking is edible. Not as good as Asgard's feasts, of course, but it isn't bad.

"So, Lucas, did you meet Wei at university?" Reyna asks, wiping some sour cream from her mouth.

"Childhood friends, actually."

"Well, that explains why he never mentioned you. Korea was never Wei's favorite memory."

Wei rolls his eyes. Still, he doesn't elaborate. Loki quickly starts to keep the conversation going.

"Where did you grow up?"

"Santiago de Chile," she says fondly. "Where in the U.K. are you from?"

"Westminster, London." He was there a few centuries ago. "I can't say I miss it. My job offers many an experience travel-wise. In fact, my studies have most recently brought me to Norway, where I was called to translate some of the ancient Nordic poetry."

Interest lights up her eyes. Loki grins widely. "Really?"

"Mhm. The translation is rough, since the runic alphabet is less letters and more used to symbolize things, but the meaning remains."

"Well, don't just hang it over my head!" she says, pointing her taco at him threateningly. "Do you have it written down?"

"No, but it wasn't difficult to memorize it. It goes like this: Battle-sweat and seeds of the Fyris Wolds, the breaker of rings looks to heaven's jewel; there he sees the hanged god, accompanied by the swans of blood, and his mind's worth is laid bare; flame-farewelled, bane of wood, the glory of elves is loosed upon him; Ymir's skull is split by Hrungnir's slayer; the sleep of the sword awaits, Valhalla's call prevails."

"That sounds difficult to memorize," Reyna says after a few moments of silence. Loki chuckles. "Do you know what it's about?"

Intimately. "A chieftain slighted the gods through plundering and bloodshed, so Odin and Thor themselves came down to end his life."

"Huh."

Chesa and Wei stare at Loki. Their silent question hangs in the air: Were you there?

His answer is told through a sly smile. Yes.

"How long are you in Charlottesville, Lucas?"

"I'm not sure yet," he says easily, "but Wei is letting me stay with him until I find out when I'm due back in Norway."

She raises her eyebrows. "Why not stay at a hotel? They'd have a comfy bed for you, you know, unlike the couch."

"I prefer spending my money on other things."

"Hopefully that thing is clothes, because Wei's clothes don't fit you." She pokes his arm with her fork. "I mean, it's a nice fashion statement, but I don't think that his comfort clothes are really your style."

"It's not. I wear more finery than I do, ah, comfort clothes."

Chesa and Wei, in unison, say: "We aren't paying for clothes."

Loki rolls his eyes. "I don't expect you to. Does the fact that you have allowed me into your home not attest to your kindness?"

"It attests to jack diddly shit," Wei mumbles. Chesa smacks his chest. "I mean, Lucas, I love you and would divorce my fiancé to marry you. Shall we ride off into the sunset and wed on the morrow?"

Reyna drums her fingers on her wrist. Loki is interested in how she knows Morse code, and in the reason behind her saying 'I love you' on repeat. He forces a laugh, however, to keep of the persona of Lucas. He has every intention of sweeping Reyna straight off her feet, and her brother-in-law will not interfere with that.

"I do apologize, Chesa, but it would seem that you're husband prefers men over women."

"Actually, I do," Chesa says, completely void of humor.

Loki nods; despite myth and legend--or perhaps true to it--these sort of 'wrong' feelings are quite normal on Asgard and the other Realms. Lady Eir, the most trusted healer, has a wife. General Tyr is known for his many exploits with both men and women alike. Fandral the Dashing may attract women with his charisma, but his, ah, willingness usually leads to more male lovers.

Actually, Loki himself isn't exclusively attracted to women. It matters not what the gender is. Men, women, neither, both--Loki is quite wide with his taste in companions, though he finds himself picky when choosing an actual partner. As he well should be.

"You had said your parents were religious. Does this not create strife?" he asks, curious to the point where any tact has left his thoughts.

From the immediate stiffening of every person around the table, the answer would be affirmative.

"My apologies," he says quickly, "that was insensitive of me."

"Really? I hadn't noticed." Wei's fingers are wide with sarcasm. It matches the rather cold sneer on his face.

"Did you learn ASL for Wei, Lucas?"

Loki is quite grateful for the smooth change in topic. Reyna is very astute.

"No, but it played a part in our getting close. I was an exchange student, see, and Wei wanted to learn the variants of sign language."

Conversation picks up a bit. It ends when every plate is empty, and starts again when Reyna drags him over to the dishes.

A quick note. Loki is a prince, and princes don't do the maids' work. He's never washed a dish in his life and it is quite demeaning. When he returns to Asgard, this will never be mentioned.

Reyna's personality is undeniably attractive. She's smart and quick-witted; respectful and unafraid to give her piece, Reyna is a bold woman who cares too much about people's opinions of her. She is kind, yes, but she is cautious with her kindness. There's nothing reckless about her. There is, however, something that can only be described as resigned. It's quiet, buried under layers of black-and-white text, but it is there.

They said she was dying. They never mentioned that she was welcoming the fact--no, longing for her end.

Loki understand why Chesa resorted to this. He understands, and suddenly leaving in a week isn't an exciting prospect.

Reyna leaves to get cleaned up. Loki sits on the couch and pages through one of her books. The plays are comparable to the ones on Asgard, in truth. He quite likes them. Midgardians are mere pets in comparison to Asgardians or Vanir, but they are creative. William Shakespeare is one of the more creative mortal men.

Chesa and Wei go to bed after they quickly give Loki a run-down on what to do.

One: Don't try to kill us while we sleep.

"So, how long have you been here?"

"Not long. Just the day."

Two: Don't break anything.

"Are any of you going to tell me what really happened with the dining table?"

"Not likely, no."

"Well, at least you're honest."

The irony is not lost on the god of lies.

Three: Be respectful to Reyna.

"I'm going to hit the hay. I've got an early day tomorrow."

"Sleep well."

"You, too, Lucas."

Loki watches her walk off. His gaze lingers on the door as she shuts it.

Three rules so far, a few months to completely woo a dying mortal, and another mortal to track down and possibly maim.

This is going to be fun.


	3. Chapter Two

~*~Fiddle Strings~*~  
Morning arrives without birdsong or lyre. No servant knocks upon Loki's bedchambers, there's not smell of gourmet breakfast lingering among the predawn air. Loki grimaces when he hears the household begin to stir; the night had been long and sleepless, with fitful movement throughout. The couch is uncomfortable. It's nothing like the king-sized bed he's accustomed to.

No one prepares him breakfast.

Chen Wei leaves, dressed in a suit that Loki decides will become part of his Midgardian attire, and soon after his departure, Reyna runs out of her room. He smiles lazily from the couch. Before he can attempt conversation, she's apologizing and running out the door. Chesa takes another two hours to stumble into the world of the living.

"Why did Reyna leave?" he demands, lounging against the counter.

The kettle sizzles. Chesa stares blankly at him while pouring the boiling water into a large cup. "She has a church group that meets up for breakfast on Saturdays. She's part of a welcome team, so they have to talk about how to be more friendly or something."

"You are not religious?" Loki questions, thinking back to the previous day's conversation.

"Nah."

No explanation is offered, mainly because she ends the conversation by putting a teabag into her beverage.

Loki carries on to a different topic.

"I require your assistance in locating this 'placebo' dealer."

"You... you aren't going to kill him, right?"

The god thinks about it briefly. "I have not yet decided. I might, though murder isn't my favorite pastime. I prefer theatre and magic to such barbaric activities."

"You threatened to kill me yesterday."

"I implied what might occur, I did not threat."

"Whatever, Chuckles. Here's how you get there--"

-

When given the opportunity, Loki will gladly create chaos. He thrives on it. He's a calculating god, an adaptive one. He makes plans and schemes and has vaults of things to fall back on if they don't work; Loki is a master of deceit and improvisation. He's the god of mischief and lies, a master of illusion magic, the silver-tongued snake that convinced Eve to take the apple. Wrong religion, actually, but the similarity still stands.

Loki links his fingers behind his back as he walks. Students of the university travel in packs of three or more. Professional-looking men and women--interns at a medical center, perhaps--walk as if on a tight wire. The little shops that dot the sidewalk are uninteresting to the misplaced god, but visitors of Charlottesville seem fond of them.

Early that morning, Wei had gotten up. He's a lawyer, a man who defends criminals and brings 'justice' to the wrongfully accused. With how sweet and high his voice is, he can imagine many a comical situation in the court. His wife, who says she works at a pizza place, was far more inclined to give information. Anyways, Loki managed to wring the name of the placebo-and-witchcraft shop from her before he left. Reyna had stopped by again to get ready for her shift at the library, struck up a brief but polite conversation, and Loki was left alone with a smile on his face.

If anyone had seen his smile, they would have known something sinister was afoot. A god smiling among men never spells something good. It's a sign of disaster, of death and destruction.

Again, the shop is uninteresting. Like all the others, it's styled in what the mortals think is a modern way. The man inside is unremarkable. Plain of clothes and of features, Loki easily identifies the man as a professional scammer. He would have to be to run such an establishment.

"Pardon me," the god says, very aware of the way the man tenses upon hearing and seeing him, "but would you have anything in stock that contains ancient Nordic runes? Perhaps Berkanan? Uruz?"

The man plays with the sleeves of his shirt. "I'm afraid we're out of stock on those. Can I interest you in something else?"

"Three raven feathers, a strand of hair, and snakeskin would be of use." Loki leans his forearms on the counter. The man steps back. "A sprig from an elder and ash tree, as well. I take it my request sounds familiar?"

"We only had one Soulmate Summons in stock, but--"

"Oh, that's not what I'm suggesting."

Loki's voice takes a darker note. The mortal is afraid, now, and the god won't lie--he takes more pleasure in his fear than he probably should. But power has always been a very nice feeling, hasn't it?

"I'm suggesting you and I go for a stroll to somewhere nice and quiet. Dealing with old magic does have prices of its own, though you know this already."

"This is a placebo shop, sir, and I don't like being threatened. Get out."

"Oh, no, I'm not threatening." Loki sets the runes on the counter and watches gleefully as the man's skin drains of color. "I'm here to talk."

-

Loki sits in a 'pizza' place. He orders a water--on his not-quite-hostage's tab, of course--and waits patiently for the right time to unravel the man.  
As to be expected, it takes very little time to accomplish just that. The mortal begins rambling on and on, crying heavily the further he goes, until Loki is left highly amused by how easily he's getting this information. Where did the mortal population's steel go? What happened to their obstinacy?

It turns out that this mortal is not doing well financially, thus prompting him to try something new. Witchcraft. And look how it backfired on the man! He's groveling in front of a god he enabled his customer to summon. An old Norse god who is inconveniently bound to a dying mortal.

"What to do?" the god wonders, tapping the table to a slow beat. The mortal stares at his fingers like they'll be wrapped around his neck any moment. He's not too far off, actually. "I suppose you know that there's no undoing this particular form of magic, and that there's even less a chance that you'll come out of this unscathed."

"Please," he whispers. "I have a wife, a daughter. My wife's expecting again."

"And this is my problem how?"

"In--in the books, you have a wife and ex-wives and kids."

Loki's impeccable posture stiffens. He has what now? "I assure you, mortal, that I have never married, nor had children."

"The books--"

"They lie as well as you do. There are plenty other jobs to pick than cheating desperate humans out of their money. There should be enough brain cells in your skull to, perhaps, give an inkling that witchcraft is a very volatile, dangerous field. You've put your family in danger."

The mortal looks downright angry, now. His voice is nearly a hiss. "I am keeping them safe!"

"Through use of ancient Norse magics."

"Through money!"

"Money acquired through use of ancient Norse magics," Loki corrects. He has no intention of killing the mortal or his family. This is just a warning... and a bit of fun. He clicks his tongue. "Now, a course of action. I believe, after all this, you are rather in my debt. I require assistance and discretion. To go against anything I say is to subject your firstborn to unpleasant experiences."

Again, Loki has no intention of harming anyone. This is more for insurance and a bit of laughter than anything else.

It works well, too.

"Not my family," the man whimpers. "Look, please--I-I can do whatever you want. If you really are a god, then please, just don't hurt my family, I'll sell my soul if it means they're safe."

An idea flickers into existence at the mortal's choice of words. "Your soul, you say?"

"Yes. Yes, my soul."

Well. If he's offering.

"I think we have a deal. Your soul is mine, and your family will get quite the happy ending."

They shake hands. Loki uses the contact to slice the mortal's wrist with the table knife supplied by the thoughtful staffing. Before the man can scream, Loki is filling his empty cup with his blood. He even clicks his tongue when he has enough for the contract to be binding, and his potentially fatal wound is healed without a scar.

Loki is many things. A hypocrite is one of them, admittedly, but that's beside the point. The point is, Loki is a god of deals. No one said they were particularly good deals, and that's for the best. Either way, he needs blood and his own skill to wrestle the mortal's soul into his nicely sized detail of unfortunate beings that accepted his offers.

The good thing is that human souls are among the most powerful, for whatever reason. The bad thing is that they are also hard to fully procure from Death's hand, the sly bastard. And don't get Loki started on Lucifer and his band of fallen angels. Absolute asses, the lot of them. Always so bitter and very unwilling to share.

But Loki digresses.

"Why aren't they screaming?" the mortal squeaks.

Loki wipes the knife off. "Hm? Oh, them. Quite simple, really. I created an illusion. Your shrieking sounds like laughter to them."

He nods faintly. "Great."

"I agree. Now, what did you say your name was?"

"I didn't."

"Oh, come off it." Loki raises his eyebrows in the most cunning of ways. "Your soul is mine, mortal, and there are ways I can get information from you that don't require your consent. For instance, say I told you to cut off your finger."

The mortal, again, freezes. He's staring in horror at his hand, which has betrayed him by leveling a knife over his pinkie.

"Say I told you to put enough pressure that it hurts." The butter knife comes down. "And say, for instance, that I was tired of demonstrating your new role in the universe, and I ordered you peel off your nail." The mortal sobs. Loki waves his hand dismissively. "See? Your will is mine. You can relax now. What had you been saying about your name?"

"Fuck you!"

"How crass. I think you should bite your tongue." In amusement, Loki watches the human do just that. Blood stains the man's mouth. "Try again, would you?"

And to think, this is mere child's play. Loki hasn't even started to truly procure the man's soul. This is a bit of magic and manipulation.

"Arnold Walker."

"What's the name of your family?"

"My wife's name is Bella. Our son is Marco."

Loki sips his water thoughtfully. "How old is your son?"

"You're making polite conversation now?" Arnold Walker asks bitterly. He swallows that tone at the dark look Loki gives him. "He's twelve."

"Are you religious?"

"Um. No?"

"Hm. Well, get back to your job. I'll send for you once I have further need for you."

Loki saunters out. Now, to procure the man's soul in its entirety. Hell's HR representatives are ever so strict. And the things he needs are somewhat of a pain to procure. Alas. The things one does for a soul.


	4. Chapter Three

~*~Devil's Luck~*~  
Chesa's house is not suited for Loki's current needs. However, with no better place to go, it'll have to do. Loki finds a spirit board in a closet and makes a quick call to Downstairs. Luckily, they pick up on the first try.

"Hello," Loki says placidly, hands on the planchette. "I am Prince Loki of Asgard, son of King Odin Borson and Queen Frigga, brother of Thor, and god of mischief. I request a meeting with the Kings of the Lower Afterlife, HR representatives included, of course. Pitch them in, would you?"

The planchette drifts across the board. NO.

"No? What do you mean, 'no'?"

A-P-P-O-I-N-T-M-E-N-T.

"I'm on a tight schedule. I--"

B-I-T-C-H.

"I beg your pardon?"

The wooden piece doesn't move. Loki gapes at it, thoroughly offended. "I demand to speak with them now, low grade demon, and on Gungir, if you fail to do this, I will summon them myself."

T-R-Y-M-E.

"Oh, I will," Loki hisses. "Goodbye."

He puts the board away. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this.

This being an impolite way to harness one of Death's aspects, trap them, and bring every hellish king running. It requires more virgins than Loki would care to admit. To soothe himself he'd drank a liquor store down the street, which may impact his anonymity in the future. The cashier hadn't taken too kindly to his 'purchase'. Now, that cashier is hogtied in Chesa's kitchen, along with a D&D group that meets on Thursday nights and an angry fast food worker.

"I truly regret this," the god tells them. None of the humans believe him, obviously. "But I'm afraid that Death and the Kings of the Afterlife are needed, and you are the unlucky lot to assist me in getting a meeting on such a short notice. Terribly sorry."

The angry fast food worker curses behind the gag. The D&D group look to their DM for guidance, but they are silent. Then there's the cashier. He's terrified, sobbing quite earnestly against the back of the fast food worker.

Loki considers his dagger. It's been a while since it has tasted blood.

"What the fuck--"

The god smiles at Chesa, who stares in horror at the scene in front of her. "Ah, mortal. What an inconvenient time to appear!"

"What--these people--are you going to kill them?" she finally stammers out. Loki raises his eyebrows.

"No, there's a political motive behind this, so I will be assassinating them. Is there a problem?"

"Damn right there is! You can't kill people, and you definitely can't do--"

"Assassinating, Chesa. Not killing. Assassinating."

Chesa dissolves into angry Spanish. Loki listens impatiently. He's a bit impressed, honestly. She's very creative.

"Are you done? If so, please leave. My business is not to be seen by mortal eyes."

"Then why are they here?"

"Well, they'll be dead. They won't be seeing anything, really." Loki chuckles at his joke. Behind him, the hostages cry in terror. He almost feels guilty. He'll make their ends quick; it's no fun, watching helpless beings suffer.

Wordlessly, Chesa grabs her purse and exits her house. Loki turns back to the assembled, snaps his fingers, unceremoniously grabs the most athletic of the bunch--the DM--and kills him. The rest screech, muffled but loud and distressed enough to disrupt the neighbors. Well, it would have been, had Loki been dumb enough to not ward the place.

Loki hums as he quickly carves a rune into the DM's chest. There's a thick noise, like marmalade makes while it's being scooped out the jar. Death is lounging on the couch, looking mildly annoyed.

"Is this necessary, prince?" they sigh, long fingers idly tapping on their knee. This particular aspect of Death is quite attractive. They wear a business suit, black and prim; their hair is currently pulled into a tight bun, and they've elected to wear lipstick today. Fetching. "I'm busy as it is, much less without you stirring up mayhem. Remember what happened last time?"

The smell of Sulphur and smoke permeate the air. Another strange noise--this one reminiscent of a big rock being flung down a well--and the house is packed with angry, armed Kings of the Lower Afterlife.

Loki smiles serenely. "Ah, welcome. It's been a long time, hasn't it? What was it... 1873, France? You look well, Pluto. How's Queen Proserpine?"

Pluto brings up his middle finger.

"Before all Hell breaks loose, figuratively and literally, cut to the chase," Death orders. They're now kneeling beside the DM's corpse. They insert their fingers into the man's mouth and drag out a long, thin string. It glows and wiggles, like a florescent worm on a fisher's hook. Or a small, glowing slug at a rave.

"Yes, down to business," Osiris grumbles, arms crossed coat-of-arms style. He glares at Loki's smug face. "You're an asshole, doing this, you know. We have souls to attend to."

"Charon is bitching about a pay raise again. Do you have any idea how much grief I'll be getting for this impromptu meeting?" Hades demands. He's usually chipper, so seeing him angry is a wonderful sight.

Loki shrugs, uncaring. "I attempted to do this the civilized way. Lucifer, you're call services are utterly disappointing."

"Not my fault that my team doesn't put up with your shit," the King of Hell says happily. He's the only one that looks excited, if not happy. "So, this is about Reyna, right? I can give her an extended life, cure her cancer, and you might even get a demigod out of it. Good deal?"

"I'm not here for her," Loki says dismissively.

Lucifer's expression crumbles. "I thought you were interested in that one."

Loki scowls. He is. But he can ease into her life, delight in her until she's on her deathbed, and then secure her a place in Asgard for all of eternity. His mother would be joyous and his father wouldn't be able to deny his queen. "I'm here for Arnold Walker's soul."

"Why?"

"I require him, including the part that doesn't die."

"And what would I get for it?"

"The damnation of his son, Marco, guaranteed."

Lucifer narrows his eyes. "Really? That's it?"

"I believe it to be a fair trade."

A slow, dark laugh. The other kings shuffle. They wish they had the worldwide reach that Lucifer does, and even the eldest of them fear Lucifer. Death, however, is unafraid. They've been around before existence and they will be their past its end. The DM's soul slithers between their pale fingers.

"I'll seal the deal," Lucifer purrs, slinking closer to Loki. He extends his hand. Loki doesn't take it.

"On what condition?"

"Our dearest Reyna, of course. I'll give you Arnold Walker's everlasting soul. I'll take his son's, and I'll give 'em a decent enough life for good measure. But Reyna Hernandez's clock is going to tick a bit faster. Deal?"

It still works out well for Loki. That's suspicious. "What else?"

"Upstairs doesn't take kindly to my influence. Saint Peter is selective with his admission, and my presence in her soul's placement has a good chance of disrupting her ticket."

It's not like she'll be going there anyway. "We have a deal."

They shake. There's a warp of heat in the air. In a blink, everyone is gone. In place of Death is a mason jar with a single, twisting thread inside.

Loki smiles at it.

"Welcome to servitude, Arnold," he says to the empty room.

"Yep."

Loki pinches the bridge of his nose. "Lucifer, the meeting ended. Don't you have a Hell to look after?"

"More pressing matters to attend to, like the fact that your immortal soul is different. Bound to a mortal who'll expire, and instead of saving yourself, you get a slave?" Lucifer tuts. "That's not like you at all, Loki."

Lucifer saunters to one of the bookshelves. He wrinkles his nose at one book in particular.

"KJV. Those sting. Anyways, you're interesting to me right now, and I believe a bit of infernal influence is in place. Well, more than what I've already done."

"I'm not interested."

"I disagree." He smiles. It's sly, charming. His eyes are black as tar. Fitting for the Devil himself.

Loki sits down and inspects the mason jar. He gives it a quick shake, watching the shimmering soul writhe inside the glass, and wonders if its body felt that. "We made our deal, Lucifer, and I'm quite finished with you."

"I'm not with you."

The god narrows his eyes. "Is that a threat?"

"Good on you, catching on so quick. Yes, it's a threat, and I make good on my threats. So, either you let me have my fun, or I end both of you quicker." As Loki surges to his feet, dagger readied, Lucifer raises his hands. "Ah, ah, ah. I'll give you time to think about it. I'm nice like that."

The dagger slices through air. Loki curses and throws the dagger. It lodges into door.

Why does Lucifer have to be so--so annoying?

As soon as he thinks that, he doubles over and retches onto the floor.

He swears he hears Lucifer laughing.

-

After staring in disturbed fascination at the vomit, Loki attempts to clean his mess. Attempts is the key word.

See, as a prince, Loki has done little other than straighten his bedchambers. There are maids to clean, chefs to cook, healers to tend the sick or wounded. Thus, Loki is ill prepared to use Midgardian tools to disinfect the area he defiled.

He begins, as he supposes he should, with disposing of the vomit. He first uses a dustpan. He tosses it and his bile into the trashcan. Next, he places linens over it. It seems the right the to do. However, Loki doubts that will sterilize the environment, and is forced to toss those, as well.

The kitchen yields supplies. Loki is quite perturbed to find that the cabinet underneath the sink is crammed full of liquid soaps, metal containers of harsh-smelling chemicals, multiple pairs of heavy-duty gloves, and square pieces of rough green material.

Why do they need all of this? Are mortals truly so messy as to have this much cleaning supplies?

He puts on the gloves. He would have used them earlier, if he'd known of their existence. Loki decisively pours powdered chemicals over the area. To be sure it gets clean, he also sprays the 'Windex' on it. Then, he scrubs.

The door opens.

Loki freezes.

In the doorway, completely blank-faced, is Reyna. She takes in the scene and, after a moment of thought, she sets her purse down. Loki wonders what she's thinking. The temptation to peer into her mind is great. Loki, however, refrains from doing do.

"Do you want some help?" she asks.

Loki feels heat creep up his neck. With as much pride as he can manage, he primly says, "No, I'm quite fine. Thank you."

She doesn't walk away. Loki, for once, wishes she would.

He is a thousand-year-old being, a born prince and avid magic user, and he's on his hands in knees. It may have been overlooked in Asgard, but he's not on Asgard. He's on Midgard, cleaning his own vomit from a lowly human's home. The fact settles on his shoulders. It's a heavy burden, degradation, and Loki understands why Atlas didn't transfer his load onto another. Poor chap is still holding up the sky, most likely.

"How was your meet up?"

Why, in the name of the Nine Realms, did he ask that?

She smiles. It's small, refined. He imagines Reyna would be an exquisite noblewoman. "It went well. On that topic, though, I was wondering if you'd like to go to church with me. I go to both services, but you can just go to the late one if you'd like to sleep in a bit."

"I would love to." Lucifer's slippery grin is fresh on his mind. "When should we depart?"

"I get there early, around seven, but first service starts at eight. Second service is at ten. After church, I usually grab lunch and head back here." Reyna goes to take off her shoes, thinks better of it, and keeps them on. She gestures to Loki. "I've never personally used Windex on hardwood, Lucas. Does it work?"

She's mocking me. Loki smiles a bit, despite the humiliation. No, not mocking. She knows I'm not normal. How astute.

"Yes, the Windex works well. I dislike it's smell, however."

Reyna nods sagely. "I expect so. Well, I'm going to change into something more comfortable. Have you eat--gracia divina, ¿que es eso?" she breaks off, staring open-mouthed at the jar.

Well, not the jar. The soul inside of it.

Loki goes to grab it. In his haste, he falls face-first into the chemicals with kingly grace. He stands up and ignores the foul mixture now smeared over his front. Reyna looks at him instead of the jar, obviously disgusted and concerned, and Loki counts that as a win.

"Ah, that's rare species of worm. A friend of mine gave it to me."

All the best lies have truth in them. Unfortunately for Loki, Reyna is not so easily convinced.

"If it were a rare species of worm, it would be given to biologists of some sort. You won't tell me the truth, will you, Lucas?" she says a bit sharply. At his silence, she points to the jar. "Is it illegal?"

"No."

"Does it have anything to do with witchcraft or Satan?"

"It might."

She purses her lips. "Tú y mi hermana son similares. Have it out of the house by tomorrow, please, and I will clean this up. You go shower."

Loki retreats quickly.

His silver tongue is failing him at the moment, and he wonders if it has to do with his deal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> gracia divina, ¿que es eso? {Literally: divine grace, what is that?}
> 
> Tú y mi hermana son similares. {You and my sister are similar.}


	5. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick thing because I feel bad inside

Ok. Writing an active atheist POVs is really hard for me, but I'm trying to make a point in this. You'll see what I mean in later chapters, so please don't get upset yet.

MY POINTS/IDEAS/QUESTIONS/ANSWERS:  
If all mythologies/religions existed at once, how would that work? Would there be feuding all the time? Meetings? Weekend get-togethers?

There are multiple types of Christianity. The branches of Christianity are different, yes, but the point is that they all worship the same God in their own way.

The LGBTQ+ community in its relation to Christianity is usually portrayed in negative lights. I'm not excusing that in any way, shape, or form. My goal for this story is to show the different ways the church, as a whole, react to the LGBTQ+ community, other parties, and sin in general. There's extremist views in regard to this, but I don't usually see positive interactions in media. I want to bring to light the unfairness of hostility to the LGBTQ+ community, how Christians should (in my opinion) face this, and how to overall portray their religion not as justification for their hatred but as a way to spread the love their religion tells them to. Hence, the church Reyna goes to.

Does magic and witchcraft have any limits? If so, what are they? Are there different types of magic? Different usages for it, practical or entertainment wise? Do magic-users find that their magic shows in physical ways?

Cancer. I'm not a stranger to it. It's prevalent in my family and in the families of many others. There's different types of medication and at-home treatments for it, there's plenty of medical advances to cure it, and there are side effects to these things. Cancer doesn't just affect someone when they're taking chemotherapy. I've seen cancer tear people down mentally, physically, and emotionally. It hurts. Some people are desperate to live, and they will try anything the doctors offer, if they can.

Reyna is modeled closely from my grandfather, honestly. Like Paw-Paw, Reyna doesn't complain much. She's devout, accepting of change, quick-witted, always eager for something practical and something to read. She, like him, loves people. That's about all, really, but Paw-Paw never got into anything with presumed-fake Norse gods.

Again, I'm sorry for the disrespect. I started writing this when I was in a bad place and the beginning of this story is told through Chesa and Loki's eyes. The rest will be through Reyna's, and she's neither an atheist nor a god, so she'll be more agreeable. I'm excited to write from her point of view, if I'm honest. Writing about religion in a bad/average way doesn't sit well for me. I don't like the disrespectful undertones, and I don't agree with all the things that the characters I write do. I'm desensitized to cursing and violence due to media and my everyday surroundings, but personally I don't like to curse. I say 'please' and 'thank you' and 'I'm sorry' way too much. I can't leave a public dinner without getting excused or the meal finishing. It... is honestly kind of sad.

So, in short: I'm doing better, I'm trying (and maybe failing, we'll see) to make a point, and I'm crazy guilty because of the disrespectful stuff, so I'm fixing that.

Read safe, y'all, and again.

I'm sorry.

**Author's Note:**

> Translations (Google Translate, per usual, so mind the errors if there are any):
> 
> Todo estará bien, mamá. No, papá, no tengo miedo. {Everything will be fine, mom. No, dad, I'm not afraid.}
> 
> No estoy mintiendo y no tengo miedo. ¿Quién dijo que mi historia terminaría con mi muerte? Mi memoria continúa, aunque no estaré allí para ver el final de mi historia. {I am not lying and I'm not afraid. Who said my story would end with my death? My memory continues, although I will not be there to see the end of my story.}
> 
> Los amo an ambo. {I love you both.)
> 
> ¿Por qué tengo la sensación de que tienes más miedo de mi muerte que yo? {Why do I have the feeling that you are more afraid of my death than me?}
> 
> ¿Qué hay de tu prometido? {What about your fiancé?}
> 
> Lo amo y él es el mejor hombre que podría pedir, pero no es mi hermana pequeña. {I love him and he is the best man I could ask for, but he is not my little sister.}
> 
> Todavía no estoy muerta {I'm not dead yet}
> 
> mi amor {my love}


End file.
